Exiled by the Gatekeepers A Scholar’s Reflection on Tribalism, Insecurity, and Institutional Stagnation

Many years ago, a close friend of mine with an MSW—a retired spokesperson for a social service agency in New York—shared with me her biographical experiences at a historically Black college and university (HBCU) in North Carolina, where she had secured employment shortly after relocating to be closer to her aging mother. Her move was motivated by family (her brother was also down there), but also by a desire to remain professionally engaged in a region that, at least on the surface, seemed to offer cultural familiarity and institutional alignment with her values. What she found, however, was a deeply entrenched system of tribalism—one that operated not through overt hostility, but through subtle codes of exclusion, status maintenance, and territorial behavior.

I listened carefully to her account, not merely as a friend but as an astute student of both human and group dynamics. Her experience mirrored my own recent encounters at two separate HBCUs in Maryland (albeit years apart), where I had accepted appointments with the expectation of collegiality, collaboration, and intellectual rigor—as a graduate student seeking to flesh out a void in my skill sets that I wanted to fill while simultaneously preparing to defend my doctoral dissertation. I was not entering these spaces with tenure-track ambitions or administrative aspirations. My goal was decidedly more pedestrian: to grow, to learn, and to contribute meaningfully to the academic community, while refining my own scholarly tool chest in the process.

As a senior, published scholar, I am intimately familiar with the politics that permeate academic institutions. But I found myself precariously navigating a landscape shaped not by scholarly merit, but by social positioning and group-based status-seeking. Take, for instance, the moment I asked the department chair if I could teach. His reply—a curt, one-sentence dismissal—stated simply that I needed a PhD. This was not an assessment of my capabilities; it was an exercise in power.

His response erected an artificial barrier—a credential-based rule that, while masked in objectivity, served to shut down the conversation. This tactic is emblematic of the “fiefdoms” I’ve described further along, where individuals wield their titles to control access to opportunity. Strutting through the hallowed halls of academia like peacocks perched on the brittle laurels of their degrees, preening in the dim light of past achievements while contributing nothing that might outlive the echo of their own footsteps.

The chair’s rejection of my offer to teach—a meaningful contribution to the department—likely stemmed from a deeper anxiety about what my presence might represent. By simply doing the work well, I would have disrupted the fragile equilibrium of mediocrity and complacency. His terse, impersonal reply was a defensive maneuver, a swift attempt to neutralize a perceived threat.

It was tribalism in action—exclusion masquerading as policy. By invoking the PhD requirement, he wasn’t merely denying my request; he was reminding me that I was an outsider. My credentials—a published novel and peer-reviewed articles—meant little against the unwritten codes of the inner circle. The dismissal reinforced group cohesion at the expense of individual merit and innovation.

The dynamic appears to be driven by a cadre of significantly younger “PhDs,” intent on protecting their territorial domains. Their influence wielded not through expertise, but through gatekeeping. To be interviewed—or more aptly, critiqued—by those scarcely a decade out of graduate school, still composing the first notes of their academic symphony, is to witness expertise in rehearsal. If they had published, it was only as collaborators—echoes in someone else’s chamber, never the soloist whose bold voice and novel work reverberated across the academe.

This was not the kind of rivalry one might expect in competitive academic environments. It was pure unadulterated tribalism: an under-performing group maintaining its status by controlling access to resources, information, and influence. Opaque meetings, selective opportunities, and informal networks were the rule, not the exception. The moment a bona fide scholar enters that space with a visible commitment to research, writing, and collaboration, the tribal instinct activates. The group closes ranks, not to protect the institution, but to protect its own fragile sense of dominance.

This tribalism was further reinforced by the comfort of handsome, taxpayer-funded salaries—generous compensation and benefit packages that incentivize inertia rather than foster innovation. These were not environments where faculty were under pressure to publish, research, lead or mentor. The financial security afforded by these state-funded institutions created a culture of professional complacency.

There is no urgency to produce, no incentive to collaborate, and certainly no appetite for intellectual risk. The result was a stagnant ecosystem where mediocrity thrived unchallenged, and where those who dared to disrupt that equilibrium—by simply doing the work—were treated not as contributors, but as threats to the status quo.

My friend’s experience in North Carolina followed a similar trajectory. Despite her credentials, decades of experience in public service, she was treated as an outsider. Her expertise was not leveraged - it was obliquely sidelined. She was excluded from key conversations, denied access to meaningful projects, and subtly reminded that she was not part of the inner circle. The institution, while publicly committed to diversity and inclusion, operated through a set of unwritten rules that prioritized group cohesion over individual merit.

She left the HBCU as quickly as she arrived, recognizing that her talents would be better utilized elsewhere. She found a position at a predominantly white institution (PWI) nearby, where her contributions were not only recognized but celebrated. She rapidly rose through the academic ranks, eventually achieving the position of Associate Dean before retiring altogether to go into ministry full-time, which she does to this day. Her upward mobility was not just a testament to her capabilities—it was a reflection of what happens when institutions value substance over status, collaboration over control.

It’s essential to underscore that the tribalism I encountered is not characteristic of all HBCUs. My experiences at Lincoln University of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania stand in stark contrast to the treatment I experienced at those two unknown HBCUs. There, my scholarship, creativity, and teaching were embraced—not only by the students, who were intellectually curious and engaged by my presentations and lectures—but also by my peers, who welcomed collaboration and respected academic rigor. It was a space where ideas flourished, where collegiality was not just a buzzword but a lived reality.

Similarly, over the past thirty years, I’ve taught at predominantly white institutions up and down the East Coast. While no institution is perfect, the culture at those PWIs was marked by openness, mutual respect, and a shared commitment to scholarship. And yes, I did encounter my share of racism at PWIs—sometimes overt, sometimes structural, often insidious. But what I did not encounter was the kind of tribalism that surfaced at the two Maryland HBCUs. The racism at PWIs, while painful and real, did not manifest as territorial gatekeeping within the academic ranks. It did not operate through the same mechanisms of exclusion, silence, and status anxiety that I observed in those particular HBCU environments.

What remains troubling is the systemic nature of this tribalism. It is not confined to a single institution or region. It is embedded in the culture of certain HBCUs, particularly those where leadership is weak and accountability is diffuse. These institutions, while historically significant and culturally vital, are not immune to the dynamics of status-seeking, resource hoarding, and exclusion. The pathology is most visible in obscure, third-rate, state-supported HBCUs that exist in the shadow of elite institutions like Clark-Atlanta, Fisk, Hampton, Howard, Morehouse, Spelman, or Tuskegee.

These unknown schools, like bastards, or unacknowledged stepchildren, lack national prestige and robust alumni networks, often compensating through internal gatekeeping and performative authority. The result is a culture of institutional insecurity—one that breeds tribalism, punishes innovation, stymies scholarship, quells academic freedom, thwarts dissent, while rewarding uniformity, mediocrity all cloaked in thick layers of stifling bureaucracy. This contrast is not incidental—it’s instructive. It reveals that tribalism is not endemic to HBCUs as a whole, but symptomatic of specific institutional cultures where insecurity fostered by status anxiety override scholarship: the raison d'être of the academe.

Rather than cultivating excellence, these spaces become echo chambers of self-preservation. Faculty and administrators, acutely aware of their institution’s marginal status, often redirect that anxiety inward—toward colleagues, or in my case prospective students, who threaten the fragile equilibrium by simply doing the work well. Scholarship becomes suspect. Collaboration is viewed as intrusion. And intellectual ambition is interpreted not as a contribution to the institution’s growth, but as a challenge to its internal hierarchy.

By implicating these pathos, I do not indict HBCUs broadly. I indict the specific cultures within them that have allowed tribalism to metastasize or, worse, fester—where the fear of not being “one of the greats” leads to a rejection of greatness itself. These are the environments where transformation is most urgently needed. Not because they lack talent, but because they’ve built systems that suppress it to carefully guard their prerogatives, the fiefdoms they created as a bulwark against critical scrutiny, intellectual rigor, and defensible scholarship.

For my part, I chose to redirect my finite energies elsewhere. I realized that engaging with individuals who are more invested in maintaining their territorial domains than in advancing higher education is a gross misuse of precious time and, more importantly, intellectual capital. I focused instead on my work—writing, researching, mentoring, and developing networks with scholars who understand that the academy should be a place for growth, activism, applied research, not self-serving gatekeeping—especially within the context of HBCUs, which should also be a safe [read that: welcoming] space for Black intelligentsia.

The irony here is profound. HBCUs were founded to provide educational opportunities to those excluded from mainstream institutions. They were meant to be spaces of empowerment, intellectual liberation, and community development. But when tribalism takes root, those lofty ideals become fatally compromised. The institution becomes less about collective advancement then more about individual preservation. Excellence is punished, mediocrity is rewarded, and innovation is stifled.

In reflecting on these dismal experiences, I am reminded of the importance of maintaining academic integrity. It is easy to become cynical, to retreat into isolation, or to mimic the very behaviors one critiques. But education, the quest for knowledge. must prevail as a guiding star in a site of obdurate resistance—a place where truth is pursued, even when it is inconvenient or unpopular. My work continues, not in spite of these experiences, but because of them. They have sharpened my analysis to a razor’s edge, deepened my resolve by fortifying my psyche against discouragement, while clarifying my purpose as an activist-scholar in the mold of W.E.B. Du Bois.

I write. I research. I mentor. I collaborate — not for the hollow nods of marginal “scholars” shackled by their own lack of imagination and chained to a trite, follow‑the‑bouncing‑ball obeisance that mocks the very mission of the academe, nor for echoes that fade hollowly in the stale air of their parochial departments, as they drift inexorably toward the obscurity they’ve earned. My work — my activism — is its own reward. I reject their tribalism. I amplify the excluded who answer erasure with excellence. My legacy will not be tribalistic but transformative.